So how do you really think of us?

For an American moving to Florence, Italy at the end of their high school career, one would think this would be a tough transition for most. Not for 21 year old marketing director of Flying Dutchman Productions, Stefano Minoli. It has been a learning experience, realizing the vast difference between the two cultures he has now firsthand experienced. Minoli, a native of Rowayton, Connecticut split his time between there and New York City, New York for fourteen years of his life. After moving to Florence to attend law school, he understood what Italians thought of American tourists. “This is a difficult question to answer because I don’t tend to generalize any particular group of people. If I had to, I suppose I would classify Americans as ignorant, war hungry, and obese,” said Minoli. Since he considers himself both an American and an Italian, it is surprising to hear how harshly the Italian people view us. Though Minoli, once being an American citizen himself, has a heart and backtracks by saying, “Naturally, with MANY exceptions; I repeat, I hate generalizing.” Coming from an expat, he is able to distance himself with his European fashion sense. Dressed to kill, Minoli describes typical American garb as “clothes that fit terribly, baseball caps, white socks, clunky new balances, way too many colors, flip-flops from February to November, camera around their neck, city map in hand.” Do we all really dress like this? If so, get me to the mall!

Aussie, Aussie, Aussie... Oy Oy Oy!

Munich, Germany: 7/11/2010, approx. 4:10 PM.

I claim my territory on a slightly too small, black leather couch at the Euro Youth Hostel internet lounge. A tragic trampoline accident, which involved my tailbone and a metal bar colliding, hindered my taking part in the second bike tour this weekend. As I sprawled out on the mini couch trying to find a position comfortable enough to stay in for five minutes, I heard an exotic accent travel across the room. Among the old dell computers lining the walls, a group of young Asian girls chattering ferociously, and tourists popping in and out for coffee or tea, I spotted the culprit of this intriguing voice.

There, thirty degrees to my left, sat a beautifully tanned and blonde Aussie. I deciphered his origin quickly by eavesdropping on his conversation with his “mate” as they checked flights for their next destination. Eventually I let my curiosity get the best of me and introduced myself, then asked them where they were traveling to. In this quick encounter they rambled about their three month journey across the world, ending with “You Americans don’t get enough holiday!” And you know what? I completely agree.

When in... Venezia!

Seven girls trudge along the streets of Lido Beach, Venice with sandy towels, sunglasses and flip flops in tow. The aroma of sweat and sand leaves a trail of something to be desired. It was an exhausting day of historical tours in 100 degree weather, hassles of catching the water boat and the enormous crowds surrounding us on Lido beach left everyone feeling drained and tainted. Separating from the larger group, the set of seven girls stayed behind to grab something to eat and would find their way back to the Hotel eventually. No one was in any rush to return to rooms with no air-conditioning and mosquito infestations.

Later they would find out how much of a mistake this original idea actually was. After a quiet dinner of margherita pizza and spaghetti at one of the cafes along the beach, being careful to scope out cheap prices and atmosphere appropriate for our beach cover-ups and salt water crusted hair, we mustered up enough energy to head back to the Hotel. As we approach the water boat station, there is an overflow of people waiting to push their way onto the next taxi. I immediately separate the anxious crowd into two groups depending on their facial expressions. Confused tourists with a look of bewilderment and native Venetians snootily annoyed and superior, but all together pulled out their red and white tickets to swipe by the electronic machine. This standard transaction was indifferent from any other American subway or train ticket, but the means of travel was completely exotic to us foreigners.

I push my way through the hot, sweaty crowd onto the dilapidated number 51 water boat along with my other six partners in crime. We all scatter as we enter the lower deck, searching for a seat or room to stand. The air in the lower cabin starts to make me feel nauseous combined with the waves rocking the boat. After trying to remember the route on the way there, we all decide that in order to reach the Hotel it is only two stops away from Lido. The sun is setting in the distance over the Lagoon, painting a picturesque picture that one only seems to see in postcards. After enjoying the breathtaking view, we exit the boat onto the swaying, unstable dock.

Only to find out after a few seconds after setting foot on dry land that this stop is an hour away from our intended location. A sense of fear and tiredness spreads throughout the seven of us as we realize were stuck, without another ticket to get back on the water taxi. I plop down on the dock and watch my counterparts search for directions. I have never been much of leader, mostly an observer. I watched them try and decipher different directions and clues in order to navigate our way back. All of a sudden a group of natives start arguing about which way is the best. Even though I couldn’t understand their language, I grasped the context of the situation. Each person wanted to be the one to “rescue” seven American tourist girls. In a way… each of these Venetians was our knight in shining armor.